Die For Me
by BLacKdEatH2KittY
Summary: A girl that everyone says thinks too much, has just one obligation now and is determined for it to obey her every command, but it refuses until the 'consequences' are payed.


Everyone that has ever known this girl has labeled her as strange, weird, possessed, and odd. Her beauty is what every girl dreams for. Her skin like an old, over-used basketball; no bumps and so smooth. Her hair is a vast field of wheat, flowing gracefully with the wind. But yet, her eyes so old, so deteriorated that a soul may fear that her body will turn to dust if they cease to get close to her.

A loner; yes, a loner all her life. That's what one may think. But that is not how she thinks. Quite a thinker actually. She likes to take human life and break it down into crumb size pieces. Her mind has taken over her body and yet has only aged her eyes. She likes to stay awake at night and think of human life and human emotions.

Once, a teacher said to her that she was thinking too much. The teacher had secretly talked to her parents that night, trying to state every exact word, trying not to leave any detail out. "I'm worried about your daughter," the teacher said as she continued, "we've been discussing heredity and she said something quite…umm," she hesitated, searching for the right word, "odd today after class. She told me that every human, every living thing is ugly. Ugly and deflected in every way possible. She also said that the most beautiful thing is when that living thing…dies." Her parents weren't stunned one bit.

That night, like every other night, they sat her down at the dinner table and tried to get her to tell them why she was the way that she was. Her pale, warn eyes would linger in the distance while her mind raced with thoughts. She never heard a single word that her parents said; she just stared out in space.

Something caught her eye. A small, distinct piece of hair floating down and down and down until it hit the table. She was a curious dog, tilting her head as she reached for the hair. Her thoughts rumbled in her head. Slowly and steadily, she lifted her fingers and glided her Braille fingers along the table, moving the hair from one side to the other.

Her eyes became more focused as she slid her finger upon a dark scratch in the table. Her thoughts vanished and it seemed like she had nothing left. She pressed on the table and moved it back and forth, back and forth, but the scratch would not obey. All she could think of was, "It is stubborn, why won't it come up?" But yet, she looked at it, started at it as her eyes got wider and they filled with more color. It was the most beautiful thing she has ever seen.

Her parents quiet themselves and started aimlessly at her. They've lost their daughter completely now. What shall they do with her? She has been a burden on their lives for years now, just because she thought too much. They watch as she builds a pattern in her movement. Her parents look up at each other and both silently decide that it was time to leave her be.

Hours go by and she's still at the table, no break in her pattern. Her parents become more worried. Seconds and minutes, hours tick tick tick by and still, nothing. "Come to bed," her mother whispers, but she gets no response. She leaves her; aggravated that she is the way she is.

Morning breaks. Her flesh becomes brittle, hair becomes fragile and thinning. But her eyes are still growing with color and fascination. Stroking, 1 stroke, 2 strokes, 1 stroke, 2 strokes, the never-ending chain of demanding obedience. The scratch has yet to move, has yet to fade, but with every stroke, she fades into nothingness.

Days pass, her parents not worried, thinking that at any moment she'll get up from the table and be alright. That dream stays a dream and refuses to become more. They move on and tend to more important things in life, leaving their only daughter there at the dinner table, alone rubbing the gloss raw.

She becomes dehydrated and frustrated within the fifth day. Dust collects around her and a clean line is what is visible. She can hear the beating of her heart rage and the blood pump from vessel to vessel, vain to vain. She grows weak and tired, but refuses to move from that precise spot, determined to end what she finished.

By day eight, an unpleasant odor reeked from her flesh, the brightness and flow of her hair, gone. The baby soft skin replaced with snake skin, rough and scaly. Her eyes turning colors; blue to green, green to hazel, hazel to auburn, auburn to grey. Except, after they turned grey, they ceased to change. Her vision worsens and the scratch no longer is visible, but she knows it is still there, disobeying every command. Her fingers numb, the room begins to spin in every direction, the heat is rising, hotter and hotter. She strokes the table harder with greater force, pressing into the wood, her heart racing each beat. Each beat strives to move faster than the beat before it.

Suddenly, everything is calm. White speckles are peering through her eyes, vanishing with every breath. The object became clearer. She started to feel an emotion she never felt; happiness. Coming into focus was her prize, a beautiful image. So beautiful that no thoughts entered or exited her mind. She stared with oblivion; no scratch left on the table. It had disappeared, and so had she.


End file.
